


trouble's only trouble if it finds you

by Lake (beyond_belief)



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 09:58:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12455037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Lake
Summary: Wacky detective hijinks, misplaced sapphires, Healy moving in, and March's inappropriate feelings (that really aren't so inappropriate after all).





	trouble's only trouble if it finds you

March has plenty of problems - alcohol, raising a teenager, running a business that makes enough money to raise said teenager, alcohol - but his latest is, well. Unexpected. He woke up one morning (late morning) and drank the whole glass of water someone had left by the bed (probably Holly) and thought, _I want Healy to fuck me_.

As thoughts go, it's not his most coherent, he's sure.

"You're going to ask Mr. Healy to move in with us, right?" Holly asks, a week after they decided to go into business together. "His apartment is sad."

This does not sound like a good way for Holland to get over his terrible lizard brain attraction. But: "If he wants to, I mean, I guess we have room," his mouth says, despite the best interests of his brain.

Holly's already out the door, presumably to insist Healy move in with them. Which he does. It takes him approximately thirty-five minutes to pack one box, one suitcase, and a duffel bag. Holland knows because he times it, despite not _intending_ to time it, or mentally inventory Healy's possessions, or watch Healy fold up his tropical-print shirts and think about Healy's hands opening his slacks. 

There's a ruined fish tank on the counter. "What happened to your fish?"

"Died."

"That's fucking sad, Jack."

"Tell me about it." Healy puts a few rolled-up pairs of socks into the duffel. He says, "You know, I could have moved myself."

"I wasn't doing anything anyway," Holland replies, which earns him a Look. He picks up Healy's Word-A-Day calendar and hands it over. "You know moving in means Holly's gonna ask you for help with her homework."

"That's fine. I won't be of any use to her in math, though."

"As if I fucking am? I think the school's got a club for that."

Healy zips up the duffel, then looks around the room. "Well, I guess if I want any of what's left, I'm paid up through the end of the week."

That's right, this was just a month-to-month. Holland lights a cigarette and mumbles around it, "None of the furniture's yours? What about the tank?"

"Just the piece of shit TV stand, and I was gonna leave it. Tank's worth nothin' without the fish, so..." He shrugs.

Holland nods. "Great. Holly will be very excited."

"That I left the shitty TV stand behind?"

"No, that you've moved in." He takes the duffel, then holds the door for Healy and the suitcase. "Now we _really_ better make enough money to afford the rent. By the way, I got us a case."

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Missing orange grove heiress."

"Ain't that in the papers?"

Holland opens the trunk of the car. "Yeah, and there's a reward."

Healy's frowning at him. "I don't think we should be finding our cases in the papers, March."

The frown and the little crease between Healy's eyebrows shouldn't make Holland want to jump him. He drops the cigarette butt on the pavement and grinds it out with his shoe. "For your information, Mr. Orange Groves called _me_ this morning, before I drove over here. We're hired."

Healy frowns a little less at that. 

Three days, one car chase, one trip to Nevada, and one Doberman that March thinks is going to maul Healy but instead licks his hands and lets him scratch behind its ears later, the orange grove heiress is returned to her father with her brand-new husband in tow. His name is Jimmy and he works in a doughnut shop and Vanessa doesn't give a _fuck_ what her father thinks about that, according to the screaming that's happening.

"They are almost disgustingly adorable together," March comments to Healy as they stand to the side of the patio, waiting to get paid the remainder of their fee. 

"I'm waiting for Miss Orange Grove to get to the part where Jimmy's parents own a fucking _doughnut empire_ and he's really almost as rich as she is," Healy replies with a grin. 

March scuffs his shoe against the brick and sighs. "If we have to wait here much longer I'm going to need a doughnut. Or a drink."

"I only buy doughnuts, March," Healy says, and the doberman sitting next to his feet starts to bark.

Mr. Orange Grove pays up in cash. He then refers them to one of his friends and the case of some stolen jewelry. "And you didn't want to go to the police, Mr. Wheatley?" March asks Mr. Stolen Jewelry, popping another stick of gum in his mouth. 

"No, no. No cops." Wheatley waves a hand, and smoke from his joint hazes the air. "They don't like me much."

"Uh-huh," Healy says. "And when did you last have this sapphire necklace and bracelet in your possession?"

"Two years ago."

March _doesn't_ almost choke on his gum. Thankfully, Healy covers for him. "Two years - okay, that jewelry is probably in Aruba by now, Mr. Wheatley."

"No, it ain't. I saw it on Sofia Peruga three days ago." 

"Sofia Peruga the club singer?" March asks, and ignores Healy's confused look.

"There's only one of them, right? I was at the Red Ribbon and there she was, singin' Midnight Blue - you know, that Melissa Manchester song from a couple years ago, and she was wearin' my sapphires."

"And you're sure it was your jewelry," Healy says.

Wheatley pinches off his joint and lays the bit that remains in a ceramic dish that's on the table next to him. "Look, fellas, it's not some everyday fucking design. Let me go get the picture. Just wait right here."

Healy does his little half-mouth side-frown as Wheatley goes inside, and March tries not to focus on it. Much. In like, an obvious way. "Why do I got a bad feeling about this?" Healy asks.

"About what?" March is still not looking at Healy's mouth. Or thinking about what he wants to do with that particular part of Healy.

Healy points a finger at him. "Like we're gonna get all wound up in another crazy investigation where you swim with mermaids and we end up getting shot at."

"The mermaids were _incidental_."

"Do you even know what that word means?" 

March is fairly certain he used it correctly and Healy is just trying to get a rise out of him, so he doesn't dignify that with a response. Wheatley is yanking the screen door open again now anyway, and the metal screeches loudly. "Here," Wheatley huffs, and pulls a very large frame along with him out onto the patio.

It's not a picture; it's a painting, nearly as tall as Wheatley. "We could have gone with you to see it so you didn't have to fuckin' drag it out here," March says, not vetting the words before he says them, and Healy elbows him lightly. 

"I had it stuck behind the sofa, I can't look at it. You want to take it?" Wheatley raises his eyebrows at them. 

The painting is a woman March is sure he recognizes, reclining on a bench or something draped with fabric, wearing nothing but this sapphire necklace. Well, _necklace_ isn't quite the word for it. More like a bib, blue stones dangling from the woman's throat to her navel, wide enough to cross almost all of her very - voluptuous chest. March is about ninety percent certain her breasts are not God-given.

"Well," Healy says. "And you waited _two years_?"

Wheatley shrugs and settles back in his chair, lighting up the joint again. "I had reasons, fellas."

March tilts his head, still looking at the painting. This time he notices the thick cuff of sapphires on the woman's wrist. "I didn't think I'd be seeing this much of Sofia Peruga this afternoon," he says.

"March, honestly," Healy mutters, doing that side-frown again. 

Wheatley snorts. "It's not Sofia. It's her sister, Antonia."

March snaps his attention from the painting to Wheatley, because he's pretty sure he heard something from Mulroney about some wise guy bragging in lockup that he was dating Antonia Peruga. "I don't go up against the Mob, Mr. Wheatley. That's not worth the money. _Any_ money."

Wheatley's shaking his head. "No, no. No Mob, Antonia ain't even in town. This is more of a... family issue. You sure you don't want to take the painting?"

"We don't want the painting, Mr. Wheatley," Healy answers for the both of them. "You got a number we can reach you at? My partner and I need to have a discussion."

"You're not gonna take my case," Wheatley says flatly, looking back and forth between them.

"That's not what I said, pal," Healy replies, his voice easy. It does things to March that he doesn't want, not right now. "Now, you got a number, or you want to just wash your hands of us and find someone else?"

March really wants a drink.

Wheatley waves a hand and tells them to hang on a second as he goes into the house again, pulling the painting along behind him. March shuffles over an inch or two and leans his shoulder against Healy, just for a second. Healy doesn't seem to mind. "I heard some rumors a while back about the Perugas and the Mob, and if this is the Mob, we're dropping this right now," March murmurs.

"It ain't the Mob," Healy replies, smiling brightly at him. "It's a guy who can't keep it in his pants."

"You still got a bad feeling about it?"

"Oh, yeah."

March still wants a drink. He glances at Healy's hands where they're hooked into the pockets of his leather jacket. It's too warm today for a jacket. He asks, "Good-bad feeling or bad-bad feeling?"

Healy smiles again at that, really smiles. March wishes he had his own jacket to hide under.

  


They're at the Red Ribbon for the second night in a row and Healy is wearing a decent enough shirt that March thinks he might die, or at least hyperventilate a little. His palms are damp, and he scrubs them on his thighs. Jack had come out of his room still buttoning it, with his hair wet from his shower, and leaned over Holly's shoulder to look at her homework. "English?"

"Diagramming sentences blows," she muttered.

"Hey," March said mildly, managing to tie his shoes, the nice ones that are a little shiny. "You never know when you will need to understand the specific parts of a sentence in the future."

Holly fixed him with an incredulous stare. "Dad, really?"

March winked at her. "It's what, noun, verb, some other thing?"

"Predicative nominative," Healy read from the worksheet. "Yeah, have fun, kid. You ready, Holland?"

Healy'd started calling him Holland. March does his best not to let it affect him, only thinks about it very late at night, muffling any sounds he might make with a hand pressed to his mouth. 

"This isn't a bad place, even if we gotta work," Healy says now, leaning comfortably against the cushioned back of the bench they're sitting on. His shoulder is pressed warm against March's as they watch the current act, a slow crooner at the piano. "Music's decent, and they got popcorn."

March got a Jack and Coke at the bar, and bought the rest of the can, so he's been adding a little more soda for every few sips he takes. It's working out alright. The popcorn is salty. In the corner there's a guy he thinks he recognizes, so he's keeping a wary eye out. Sofia Peruga is performing next and every so often March catches a flash of silver sparkles behind the curtains that buffer the side of the stage, and wonders if that's her. He's hoping tonight she'll wear the sapphires so they can get this wrapped up.

Piano guy does a little flourish as he finishes up "Among My Souvenirs", then says, "Thanks for your kind attention - Miss Peruga will be out in just a few moments."

March applauds politely and eats another handful of popcorn. "You think she'll do Crimson and Clover?" he asks Healy, who gives him a querying look. "What? I seen her once before. Not here, though."

Healy steals a handful of March's popcorn and a sip of his Coke. "You're lucky I don't care that you fuck with my shit," March tells him.

Healy only raises an eyebrow and takes another drink of March's soda. Sofia glides into the spotlight.

Forty-five minutes later, there's a scuffle in a back hallway that ends with the familiar-looking guy's face running into Healy's fist, winding up flat on his back, moaning through the hands cupped over his nose. Sofia Pergua, still in her silver dress, makes a break for him with one stiletto raised, and March grabs her before she can break a few other bones along with his nose. "Hang on, Sofia, you can wail on him in a minute, once we get this shit all sorted out."

"I'm not Sofia, I'm Antonia!" she hisses, yanking her arm free of March's hand. "And that - that _garbage_ -" she breaks off to swear fluently and at length in Italian, glaring down at the guy Healy's still pinning to the floor with a boot to his chest, "is _slime_ that Ricardo send after my sister."

"No, no, no, no," March says, then sighs. He really wants a cigarette, but he's trying to cut back, what with the smog and all.

"Yes!" Antonia shouts, all her sparkles and the sapphires shaking with anger. "Sofia doesn't want to marry him, but he tries everything to convince her! So I came to sing instead, so she could get away from him!"

March meets Healy's gaze, then rubs a hand over his forehead. "Look, lady. We're here for the sapphires."

"The _jewelry_?" Antonia waves her hands, nearly hitting March in the head. "Johnny Wheatley, he gave that jewelry to Carolina. It was a gift. A gift, you hear?"

The slime on the floor tries to move, and Healy pushes his boot a little harder as he says, "Who the fuck is Carolina?".

Antonia huffs and makes more huge hand gestures, like she can't believe this. March is having a hard time, himself. She points at the guy on the floor. "I pay you to kill him, how much?"

"No, we don't do that," Healy says before March can even blink at the question. "Sapphires, lady. I don't care if you're Sofia, Antonia, Carolina, or the Virgin Mary. Give them to my partner and I'll leave this garbage here for you to rearrange his face. Since it seems like you'd enjoy that."

Antonia takes a very deep and dramatic breath, then undoes the bracelet and necklace and lowers them both into March's now-outstretched hand. "You tell Johnny Wheatley if he shows his face here again I'll rearrange it, too."

"Yeah," March mutters, palms now full of precious stones. "Yeah, we'll tell him."

In the car, he squints at the jewels and says, "These better be the real fucking thing and not some copy she had made."

"If they're a copy we're quitting this case," Healy replies. "You hungry, Holland?"

March blinks at the turn of subject. He scratches a thumbnail gently over the surface of one of the stones; nothing happens. "For like, food?" He holds up his handful of necklace. "You think we should drop this problem off now, or maybe Wheatley can wait until tomorrow." 

It's not really a question - he knows they're not gonna go bang on Wheatley's door at half-past midnight, even if he probably does deserve it. _Three_ Peruga sisters, Christ.

"Holly's staying over at Jessica's, yeah?" Healy turns the corner, his palm smooth on the steering wheel. March imagines he can see the flex of Healy's thigh as he goes on and off the gas pedal - it's late, it's dark, and March knows he can't _actually_ see it, he's just making it up. 

He gets his mouth working again and stops looking at Healy, looks out the windshield straight ahead instead. "Yeah."

Inside the house, he looks for a place to put the jewelry, and eventually puts it in the safe. "I gave you the combination, right?" he asks, walking into the kitchen, then stopping at the sight of Healy whisking something in a bowl - it looks like eggs. "What are you doing?"

Healy gives him a confused look and puts the bowl on the counter. "Making something to eat, Holland, like I said?"

"I thought you meant like, get a pizza from that joint down the street." March opens the refrigerator and looks in. They've got three kinds of juice, at least. He picks orange - might as well make it a late-night breakfast sort of thing. When he turns, Healy's right there in his space, and March nearly drops the pitcher. Thank God it's got a lid, or he'd be wearing juice right now. 

"Try not to drop the juice, there," Healy says, drawing the words out just enough that March can't help but watch the way his mouth moves for a second before he catches himself. There's no way Healy didn't notice it, though. His grip slips a little on the pitcher again, and this time Healy grabs it. "Holland."

"I'm not drunk." March frowns. It makes no sense for him to say that; they've been together all night, Jack knows he isn't drunk. He tries again. "You're very close."

"I was getting the margarine." The juice is pulled from his hand, and set on the counter, but they're still directly in front of the refrigerator and March's back is starting to get cold, even if the rest of him is sweating. He lifts his gaze to meet Healy's, finds Jack already looking at him, like he was waiting for March to get with it. Then Healy leans in so that his mouth is very close to March's ear and murmurs, "Maybe we should close the fridge door, Holland."

The way Healy says his name makes him shiver unmistakably. "You're - you're in my way."

"Am I now?" Then Healy's arm comes around his waist and March finds himself _moved_ , physically, and Healy pushes the fridge shut but doesn't let go of him. "You think I missed how you swallow like your mouth's gone dry every time I move?" Healy asks, still murmuring, still very close to March's ear. "Spread your legs for me, Holland."

March's life, framed in filmstrip squares, flashes before his eyes as he does, and feels Jack press his thigh up hard against March's aching cock. He groans and clutches at Healy's broad shoulders, fingers digging into the tropical print. 

"We can't fuck in the kitchen," he blurts out.

"Wasn't planning on it." Healy kisses him then, hot and with teeth, dragging his tongue slowly over March's until March is grinding against his thigh. When Healy gives up his mouth, March bangs his head on the fridge door. Accidentally.

One of Healy's hands comes around to cradle March's skull. "Careful with the brain damage."

"Ha fucking ha," March tries to say, but it's lost to the fingers Healy is sliding into his mouth. The skin is warm and sweat-salty. March closes his eyes and sucks, hears Healy's sharp inhalation as he traces callouses with his tongue. 

"Didn't someone say something about not in the kitchen," Healy mutters, before pulling back and pulling March along by his tie, stumbling down the hallway. "Your bed is bigger, I hope?"

"I haven't shown you my bedroom yet? I guess now's a good time." He tries to be smooth about it, but Healy just smirks and runs a hand up his thigh, and as fingers stroke over March's dick he manages to croak out, "Have you known all along?"

"That you'd probably take my dick and not complain?" March groans at the words, and Jack grins. "No. But don't start thinking you're subtle or anything."

"Fuck subtlety." He pushes Healy the rest of the way through the bedroom door. "And no cracks about how the bed's not made."

"Aren't we just going to fuck it up anyway?" Healy tugs the suit jacket from him, then starts in on his shirt before he pauses, one eyebrow up in his Healy-way. "Your arm okay?"

March got the cast off before they went to the Red Ribbon the first time. The skin is pale, but he's okay otherwise. "Yeah, as long as I don't knock it against the headboard funny or whatever," he says, as Jack continues unbuttoning his shirt, yanking it free of his waistband. He tries to get Healy's clothes undone, but Jack knocks his hands away, something about doing it faster himself, and March gets pushed down on the unmade bed.

He dumps the blankets off onto the floor, then rolls his briefs off as Healy strips. As promised, there's a flare of scars on his upper arm, but there's also a curving line along his side, against a rib. "An oldie," he says when he sees March looking. "Knife fight not even worth the time it would take to explain."

"Sure," March says, but dubiously, and when Healy walks between his knees, he rubs a thumb over the faded scar. "Hope you got the other guy just as good?"

"Got him better." Healy's eyes track over him, pausing on the tattoo that curves around March's hip. He doesn't say anything about it, just strokes a hand over the letters before reaching around to cup March's ass. It's a good time for a kiss, March thinks, now that they're pressed together, and opens his mouth to Healy's. From there, Jack kisses down his neck and nips at his collarbone. "You got stuff so we can do this, or is more foreplay on the agenda?"

March flails a hand at the nightstand. "Should still be good," he says, and curls a hand around his dick, stroking himself slowly as he looks at Healy's dick. It's in fair proportion to the rest of him, and for a second March wonders if he's now wildly out of his depth, and should have started with something less intense. Like handjobs on the sofa.

"March? Holland?" Healy's saying, leaning over him with lube and a condom in hand. 

"What? I'm here."

Healy gives him a look, then squeezes March's thigh with one large hand. "You sure about this?" he asks before he squeezes some slick onto his fingers, and March's brain starts to slide sideways, thinking about those fingers pushing into his ass. "Holland, seriously, don't fuckin' zone out before we're even doing it, come on."

"I'm good, really, let's go," March replies.

March hasn't done this particular act in quite some time, and he tenses despite himself. "Fuckin' breathe, will you?" Healy mutters. 

March feels warm, wet fingertips rub over his asshole, and takes a careful lungful of air, making himself relax. "There," Jack breathes into his ear, as he works two fingers slowly in and out. "You good? You want a scotch?"

"Just fucking fuck me, all right?" March sucks in a faster breath; Jack's fingers feel good, filling him up in a way that Holland hasn't had in a long time, and his erection hasn't flagged at all.

"Since you asked so nicely." There's the crinkle of the condom wrapper, but then Jack's leaning over him, one palm on March's inner thigh, thumb sweeping warmly. It's nice. "Really, Holland."

"Stop making me talk when I'd rather be getting fucked," March says. Healy smirks and pushes his knees wider. 

March looks up at the ceiling, then closes his eyes. Jack pushes in - slowly, but without stopping, and March thinks dazedly that he must have slicked on some extra lube. It feels like he can feel everything all at once, although that clearly can't be true, and then Healy's clean hand is touching his face. "March, don't pass out."

"I'm not gonna pass out from your dick," March manages to reply - to grumble it, mostly. He moves his hips a little, experimentally, and Jack makes a soft sound, like a little puff of breath, and pushes March's knee up. 

March groans and lets his head fall back onto the pillow. He feels - hungry isn't the right word for it, and ravenous is too hurried. He just _wants_. Healy's hot and heavy but all in a good way; for once March doesn't mind the sweating. It eases the way when he slides a hand down to tug at his cock a few times, trying to stay in pace with Jack's thrusts.

Jack comes first - very unfair, March thinks groggily; he really likes continuing to float that edge until his partner finishes - but then pulls out carefully and slides down March's body until his head is level with March's very excited dick. "You can come in my mouth," he says, and proceeds to suck March's cock until Holland's sure his brain's gonna bleed out his ears. And then he comes in Healy's mouth and it's like every fantasy he's had for the last six weeks.

"Jesus," he sighs, and pats Jack's hair.

"You're welcome."

"I need a cigarette," March mumbles, but he feels very content right now and doesn't actually want to move. 

Jack doesn't move, either; he just puts his hand on March's thigh and squeezes for a second before he says, "Tell me that wasn't a bad idea."

"Excuse you, fucking was a _great_ idea," March's mouth says ahead of his brain, but he really can't come up with an actual reason to argue it. "If you want to do it again, I'm down."

"Christ, not right now." Healy laughs and sits up. "I'm going to go. Deal with the condom. Once I can stand."

"Okay." March sits up, too. Then he nuzzles his face against the back of Healy's neck, nosing at the shaggy uneven line of his haircut, and says, "How about tomorrow we go get you some new fish."

**Author's Note:**

> My favorite thing from the novelization is that March insists that doughnuts be spelled as such, and not donuts. I have been writing this story for entirely too long. Thanks to C. for the beta.


End file.
